


You Are the One (With Your Finger on the Gun)

by whispered_story



Series: You Are the One [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU after 2x11, First Time, M/M, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's little things at first – Dean's duffel bag being at the other end of the room, his fork missing when he reaches for it, things falling down. By the time Dean realizes that it's Sam moving things with his mind, the situation is already threatening to get out of hand. Sam can't control his sudden telekinesis and on top of it, there's a ghost to hunt in Virginia, the Yellow Eyed Demon to worry about, and Dean has his own problem to deal with. Years ago, before Sam left them for Stanford, he kissed Dean and Dean can't forget about it. As time passes, it becomes harder and harder for him to pretend he's not in love with Sam and he can't stop himself from wanting things he knows he can't have. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 4/8/2011]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gorgeous [art](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/10232.html) by [](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com>smallworld-inc</a>.%0A%0ATitle%20taken%20from%20Robbie%20Williams's%20)

_"You have to save him, Dean." John's voice has the same grave tone to it that he had used whenever he'd told Dean that Sam was his responsibility. That he had to protect Sam, take care of Sam._

_"And if you can't...you have to kill him if you can't, Dean," he says._

Dean wakes with a start. 

The room is quiet and Sam is sleeping peacefully in the bed just a few short feet away. For a moment Dean just lies still, listens to Sam breathing softly in and out, then he sighs and rolls out of bed.

The sun is just rising and it's gloomy outside, a thick fog hanging in the air. It fits Dean's mood. 

He runs a hand over his face, feeling dead tired even after a good six hours of sleep. They're both exhausted, he thinks, physically and mentally. Too much has happened in the last few months – too much bad stuff and not enough good stuff. 

Turning away from Sam, Dean tries to be quiet as he goes into the bathroom. He turns on the shower and shucks off his boxers and t-shirt, stepping under the spray. The water is hot, the water pressure decent for once, and Dean tilts his head forward, lets the water beat down onto his shoulders. 

He feels a little more awake when he emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, his skin a soft pink and hair damp. 

Sam is still sleeping, face mushed in the pillows now and legs tangled in the sheets, and Dean feels a wave of fondness looking at him. Sam looks years younger in his sleep with his lips parted and disheveled hair. It reminds Dean of when they were younger; Sam sleeping beside him until he decided he was too old to share Dean's bed, chubby cheeks puffing out and covered with pillow creases. Reminds him of hours in the back of the Impala, bodies curled together under blankets while the local rock radio station played in the background, their dad humming along and Sam snoring. Of Dean being in John's place years later, Sam in the passenger seat, too-long limbs curled up awkwardly as he slept. 

Dean sucks in a deep, shaky breath, wishing things could be that easy again. Nothing's easy anymore these days.

Sometimes, Dean wants to pull the Impala over on the side of the road and say screw it. Screw whatever town they're driving to, or whatever town they're running from and most of all screw whatever the goddamn demon wants from Sam, because he's sure as hell not getting it as long as Dean's around. 

Dean wants to forget what his dad asked of him, what Sam made him promise a few days ago in Cornwall. He just wants to stop for a while, catch his breath and let Sam catch _his_ , but he knows they can't do that. Won't do that. They'll just keep on going, slowly running themselves ragged with each day that passes. It's part of the job – you keep going until something kills you. That's how it had been for their dad and for any other hunter Dean has ever known.

Dean shakes his head at himself, tearing his eyes away from Sam's sleeping form, and bends down to get clean, or at least not completely soiled - and, god, they really need to do laundry soon - clothes from his duffel. 

Except, it's not there. Sam's beaten up duffel is sitting at his feet, but the space next to it is empty.

Dean lets out an annoyed noise, looking around, but he can't spot it anywhere.

"What the hell?" he mutters to himself. He _knows_ he put his duffel right where he's standing the night before, next to Sam's - where it always is. Maybe he's finally gone crazy now. 

He goes back into the bathroom, thinking that maybe he brought his things into the bathroom the night before when he went to wash off the blood and grime on him, but the floor is empty save for Sam's clothes from the day before. 

It's when he turns back around that he spies the frayed edges of his olive duffel bag next to Sam's bed.

"Oh, haha, Sammy," he mutters, stomping over. He slaps Sam's thigh a little harder than necessary when he reaches the bed, watching Sam's body jerk awake.

"Time to get up," he says, reaching down to pick up his duffel bag. "You're hilarious. Really."

"Wha'?" Sam mutters, lifting his head and squinting up at him. 

"That's the weakest prank you ever pulled. Actually, I don't think this even qualifies as a prank," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "I thought I taught you better, man."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam says, voice rough with sleep. He looks at Dean with annoyance, his forehead wrinkled, as he untangles himself from the covers and gets up with a grunt. 

Dean watches him shuffle into the bathroom.

"I'd probably be too embarrassed to take credit for that, too," he mumbles under his breath, listening to the snick of the bathroom door closing behind Sam.

Dean has a box of doughnuts and two steaming paper cups of coffee waiting by the time Sam is showered and dressed, hair curling damply at the back of his neck.

He slides Sam's coffee across the table as Sam drops onto an empty chair and takes a gulp of his own. It's still too hot, scalding the roof of his mouth, and Dean welcomes the way it burns, tries to focus on the slight pain.

He does not think about how good Sam looks. His eyes don't follow the small drops of water trailing down Sam's neck from his hair, leaving a dark stain on the collar of Sam's shirt. He doesn't notice how Sam smells of cheap soap and even cheaper cologne, the same brands he's been using since he was a teenager. 

"Any idea where we're gonna head next?" Sam asks, peering into the box of doughnuts until he settles on the powdered one. 

Dean takes another sip of his coffee, tears his eyes away from Sam.

"Somewhere south," he says. 

It's started raining, just a soft drizzle that makes everything damp and clammy and uncomfortable. Dean is ready to get as far away from New England as possible. "It's too freaking cold here."

Sam throws him a knowing grin. "Wuss."

"Yeah, right. How many layers are you wearing today, Sammy? Thirteen?" 

"Nah, just twelve," Sam says with a casual shrug. "So no new case yet, then?"

"Where would I have come up with a new case between last night and now?"

Sam takes a bite of his doughnut, white powder clinging to his upper lip, and his tongue sneaks out to lick it off. 

"Wouldn't be the first time one of us stumbled upon something just getting breakfast. It's like this stuff looks for us," he says. "Remember that time in Oklahoma when you got coffee at what had to be the only haunted coffeehouse in the whole freaking country?"

"I remember. Unfortunately, I had no such luck today," Dean replies. "Guess we gotta go out and look for it all by ourselves this time."

Sam offers him a wry smile and shoves what's left of his doughnut into his mouth, cheeks bulging out as he chews. And he says Dean's the pig.

"Nothing new?" Sam asks when Dean hangs up the phone.

Dean shrugs, throwing the phone onto the mattress next to him. "There were a couple of incidents with hikers getting hurt in North Carolina, but Bobby thinks it was just a bear attack. We should keep an eye on the news, just in case, but it's probably not worth going there and checking it out. And there's a haunted dormitory in Seattle."

"And how's _that_ one not a job for us?" Sam stretches out on his bed, long limbs sprawled everywhere, shirt sliding up and revealing a sliver of pale skin. 

Dean scratches the back of his head and clears his throat.

"Spirit's not really doing much. So far it's just three girls who all swear up and down they saw a ghost in the communal showers."

"We could check it out anyway. We got nothing better to do, right?"

"There are hunters who are closer than us. No reason to drive all the way across the country for a harmless ghost who likes to ogle naked girls."

Sam snorts. "I never thought you'd turn down a case that involved naked girls. You feeling okay?"

"Seattle is in the _north_ ," Dean argues with a shrug. "Not even women can get me there. Plus, I can find plenty of girls here just fine, Sammy. I don't need to drive all the way to Seattle for that."

"Right."

"Wanna bet? I could get any girl in this goddamn town to sleep with me," Dean says, getting up from the bed and stretching his sore muscles. 

He feels restless after being cooped up in the car all day, body humming with pent-up energy, and going out actually sounds like the best idea he's heard in a while. Sam doesn't move, though.

"I really don't wanna spend my night watching you hit on every girl who looks halfway decent, Dean."

Dean gives Sam a look that is half-exasperated and half-pleading. "Come on. We'll find a bar, have some beers."

"You do that," Sam says. "I'll stay in. Watch some TV."

"I promise I won't hit on any girls if it makes you feel better, princess. Get your ass off the bed and come with me." Dean rolls his eyes, grabbing his jacket from the foot of his bed. 

"Right. I know you better than that," Sam says with an amused snort. "Remember my thirteenth birthday? You took me to some fast food dump, and then left me sitting alone in the booth while you banged the waitress in the bathroom."

"She was the head cheerleader of my high school, Sam. You don't turn down an opportunity like that."

"It was my birthday!" Sam says indignantly, and then huffs out a breath when Dean laughs.

"Okay, I'm terribly sorry I ruined your birthday when you were thirteen," Dean says, holding up his hands with a smirk. "Now, you coming or what? Maybe we can find a bar with a pool table. We're a little low on cash anyway."

"Again?" Sam asks, groaning, but he finally gets off the bed.

They find a bar at the other end of town that actually seems pretty crowded for a weekday, and it takes Dean only a few seconds to scope out the place, spying a few pool tables with satisfaction.

He claps Sam on the back. "Okay, you get a booth and I'll get us something to drink," he suggests. 

"Just beer. No shots," Sam calls after him.

Dean waves him off and strolls up to the bar, leaning against it casually and glancing around while he waits for the bartender to finish serving a group of women at the other end of the bar. He doesn't have to look for Sam to know that he's chosen one of the empty booths that gives them a clear view of the pool tables. To know that right now Sam is sprawled out in the booth, looking as if he doesn't have a care in the world while he waits for Dean to get them drinks, just two brothers having a beer in a dingy bar. They've played the game too many times to count. 

The bartender smiles widely, suggestively, at Dean when she takes his order, and Dean winks at her as she slides two beers over the counter and accepts his money but doesn't stay to talk to her.

"Here you go," Dean says, sitting down opposite Sam and handing him the beer. 

"Thanks," Sam says, taking a swig from the bottle before leaning forward a little. "Third table has three guys playing. Probably the easiest."

Dean nods in agreement.

They sit back, and Dean feels himself relax. He keeps a casual eye on the pool tables as they talk. There are three tables – one is taken by what looks like a couple on a date, the guy leaning over the girl, helping her take shots as she smiles up at him. Another has two college kids playing, and another is three guys Dean's age. It doesn't take long before one of them catches Dean's eyes, nodding back when Dean nods their way.

"Showtime. You join us when I go all in," Dean mutters, giving Sam a smile. 

They've done this a million times; it's something that Dean learned watching John at bars, and Sam learned watching Dean, and Dean feels the familiar rush of excitement. He saunters over to the pool table where the three guys are.

"Hey," he says. "Mind if I join in?"

"You play?" one of the guys asks.

"Sure."

"Any good?" another asks.

Dean shrugs. "Why don't I play one of you and you can see for yourself?" he asks, smirking, and the guy shrugs, looking at Dean like he has him figured out. Like he's the one fooling Dean. 

It's too damn easy some days.

They play two rounds, wager pretty low. Dean makes sure to lose both games narrowly.

"Okay, that was just luck, man," he says when the second game is over. "Rematch? I bet I'll get you this time?"

"If you wanna lose again," one of the guys says and grins. 

Dean purses his lips, narrows his eyes. "I won't," he says brazenly.

"Yeah, you said that the last two games, too, dude."

"Fine. But hey, if you're so sure you'll get lucky and win a third time, how about we up the stakes a little?" Dean asks, reaching for the wallet in his pocket, pretending to count the money. "I have, uh, let's see, three hundred bucks?"

It's the only money they have left, most of their credit cards are maxed out as well, but Dean doesn't feel worried for even one moment. He pulls the money out, places it onto the edge of the pool table and gives the guys a challenging look

"Dean," he hears Sam's voice, annoyed and sharp. He feels him stop behind him and, when Dean looks up, Sam looks pissed, face drawn tight. Dean bites back a smirk.

"Hey, Sammy. Guys, this is my little brother," he introduces offhandedly. "Wanna join in?"

"No," Sam mutters under his breath, barely glancing at the guys. Then he continues, voice louder, "Actually, can we go now?"

"One more game."

Sam looks at the wallet Dean is holding, then at the wad of cash on the table. 

"You're not," he hisses.

"Not what?"

"Goddammit, Dean," Sam says. "You already lost us enough money the last time. You said it wouldn't happen again."

"Relax. That was just bad luck. I got this. I'm gonna win this time."

One of the guys chuckles, and Sam glances at him before looking back at Dean. "Right," he mutters. "God, I don't even know why I agreed on this stupid road trip."

"Don't be such a tightass, Sammy."

" _We're brothers. We should get to know each other again, Sammy_ ," Sam mimics, ignoring Dean, and Dean has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing at Sam's display. "I should have known this would be a disaster."

"Stop bitching. If I wanted a nagging wife, I'd be married," Dean replies, turning his back to Sam to look at the guys. "So you in?"

One of the men, the one Dean hasn't played against yet, gets out his wallet. He's tall and muscular and, from what Dean saw, the worst player out of the three, yet the cockiest. He bites back a smirk.

"Sure. Prepare to lose, man," the guy says, putting three hundred dollars onto the pool table and then grinning at Sam. "Sorry, dude. Your big brother here is asking for it."

He loses his grin when Dean wins.

"See, Sam?" Dean says, turning to Sam who's still looking pissed. "Told ya."

"Awesome. Now you almost made up for what you lost three days ago," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "Can we go now? I'm tired and if we miss check-out tomorrow because you wanted to drink the night away again, I'm taking a goddamn bus back home."

"Jesus, okay, calm down, kid," Dean mutters, giving the guys an apologetic look. "Sorry, guys, I'd love another round but gotta go now. But it was nice playing you."

The guy Dean just played looks miffed, and for a moment Dean thinks he's going to start trouble, is not going to let Dean just leave with his money. But then the cue that he'd propped up against the pool table suddenly crashes onto the ground with a loud clatter and the guy is distracted enough that Dean takes the money, nods at the other two guys and quickly follows Sam out of the bar.

Sam's expression relaxes when they're outside, shoulders dropping and his lips twitching into a smile. Dean feels his own smile mirror Sam's. 

"So, that was fun," he says, nudging Sam's shoulder.

Sam snorts. "For you. I just sat around and looked pissed."

Dean laughs. "Well, we all have our strengths. You were really convincing, Sammy."

"Pretending you're my pain in the ass older brother – gee, I wonder why."

"Whatever. I'm a pleasure to have around, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replies and grins so wide his cheek must hurt, his goddamn dimples deep enough that Dean could get lost in them. 

He looks away before he does something stupid.

Dean pops the first strip of bacon into his mouth, moaning happily as it crunches between his teeth. He brings his fingers up to his mouth once he's swallowed, licking the grease off them.

Sam is watching him, an odd expression on his face, the newspaper he's just unfolded lying forgotten on the table. Dean might not be able to read his expression, but he's pretty sure Sam is about to bitch him out for his table manners the way he always does, so he reaches for his fork. Sometimes it's easier to just humor Sam.

Only, his fingers find empty air. He looks down but the fork is gone, and Dean looks around in confusion before lifting his plate. 

"What're you doing?" Sam asks.

"My--" Dean starts and then sees the two forks next to Sam's hand. "Did you take my fork?"

"No?" Sam replies. "Why?"

"Because it's right there next to your hand," Dean says, pointing.

Sam looks down, surprised, and frowns. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say it's genuine.

He glares at Sam, snatching his fork back. "You're goddamn annoying," he grumbles.

"I didn't take it," Sam argues. "Why would I take your fork?"

"Cause you're immature and your pranks suck?"

"Yeah, I'm the immature one. Right. Whatever, Dean." Sam gives him an exasperated look. He picks up his own fork and focuses on the newspaper, ignoring Dean's quiet huff.

Dean rolls his eyes, even if Sam can't see him, and starts eating. Breakfast is quiet, Sam reading and Dean silently eating his heap of food, gulping down two cups of coffee as his irritation slowly fades. By the time they pay, Dean has brushed the whole thing off.

"Found anything?" Dean asks when they walk out of the diner, the keys to the Impala jingling as he twirls them around.

"Not really," Sam says with a shrug. He brings his hand up and rubs his temple, and Dean notices the slight creases on his forehead. 

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, fine."

"Sam? It's not another one of your visions, is it?" Dean asks, crowding a little closer and cupping Sam's elbow with one hand.

Sam shakes his head. "It's nothing. Just been having these headaches." 

Dean knows the dismissive tone well enough to know not to force the issue, and he lets it drop. 

In the car, he silently hands Sam the bottle of painkillers before he starts the ignition. Sam doesn't protest, swallowing down a few pills and curling up in the passenger seat as best as the space allows him.

Ten miles later, he's dozed off with head resting against the window. 

Dean turns the music down low, not wanting to wake Sam. He keeps a close eye on Sam as he keeps driving, but Sam sleeps peacefully. Dean feels a surge of relief at the fact that the headache apparently really wasn't the sign of an impending vision and relaxes a little.

The more miles they leave behind them, the more Dean relaxes. Sam doesn't look in pain, doesn't look feverish, and Dean thinks maybe a few hours of rest is all Sam needed to recharge. And it's nice – just his car, Sam, his music and the endless highway. He loves hunting, loves the thrill of it, and he likes nothing better than the satisfaction of knowing he's killed another evil son of a bitch when they get a job done - but it's these moments, when they're between hunts and have nothing to worry about for a few, quiet hours, that Dean enjoys the most. 

Sam makes a soft, hitching noise, and shifts, turning towards Dean in his sleep. The position looks uncomfortable, the way Sam's neck is twisted, and Dean reaches over with one hand and nudges Sam's head a little. Sam goes with the touch easily, and Dean's hand lingers for a moment, Sam's jaw scratchy with stubble, warm. 

It makes Dean's heart ache a little. 

He remembers this from a different time, his hand cupping Sam's face, fingertips tangled in strands of silky hair as Sam pressed up against him. He remembers the feeling of Sam's breath ghosting over his face, Sam's lips so warm and soft and hesitant as he pressed them against Dean's. Unable to turn Sam away, to not give in, Dean had kissed Sam back. It's a memory that's burned into Dean's mind forever, one he can't let go of. It had been the single most perfect and most horrible moment of Dean's life. 

The kiss had been chaste, sweet, and when they'd broken it, Sam had pressed his face into Dean's neck, breath harsh as he'd started shaking. Dean had held him tight as hot tears slowly soaked through his shirt.

The next morning it had been just Dean and John, while Sam was on a bus carrying him to California.

They'd never spoken about that night, even when Sam started hunting with him again. Most days, Dean can pretend it never happened.

"Got a case," Sam says when Dean gets back into the car, carefully balancing two paper cups of cheap coffee, a bag of Doritos, and a couple of chocolate bars. He has a map spread out over his lap, frowning down at it, fingers tracing a line.

Dean carefully puts Sam's coffee down and takes a healthy gulp of his own. It's only lukewarm and tastes like dirt but Dean stopped caring years ago. Most days, it's the best you can get when you grow up on the road. 

"Where?" he asks, picking up one of the chocolate bars and ripping away the foil.

"Smithfield, Virginia," Sam says, tapping his finger on the map as Dean peers over.

"Not too far," he muses. He bites off a piece of chocolate, chewing slowly as he turns the key in the ignition. "What exactly is in Smithfield, Virginia?"

"A couple was found dead in the basement of their house. Carol and Ray Marshall, both 33, married for four years," Sam says, reaching for the folded newspaper he'd put on the dashboard. Dean can see him skim the article out of the corner of his eye, knows it's just a habit because Sam has already committed the details to memory. "There was no sign of a forced entry, nothing from the house seems to be missing, and no evidence of a domestic dispute. The local police have no leads."

"Okay, so you're thinking ghost? Demon?"

Sam shrugs, reaching for his coffee. "Ghost," he says. "The article says it's not the first strange death in town, but doesn't really go into details. It's kinda odd, but it should be easy enough to find out."

Dean nods in agreement, pushing the last of his chocolate bar into his mouth before washing it down with the coffee. 

"Smithfield it is then," he says with a smirk that has Sam rolling his eyes.

Smithfield, Virginia is a river town with a population of just over 6,000 that looks quiet and peaceful. Not the kind of place where anyone would suspect to find ghosts or demons or any other monster.

Smithfield, Virginia is where everything changes.

The light bulb over the sink keeps flickering, throwing shadows onto Dean's face as he washes his hands, and then it goes out with a soft, hissing pop.

"Great," Dean mutters. He pats his hands dry on his jeans as he carefully makes his way to the door a few short feet away.

"Light's out in the bathroom," he informs Sam, blinking at the sudden brightness in the room. 

Sam runs a hand through his hair, pushing strands out of his face, and offers Dean a wry smile. He's sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, laptop open. "This place is kinda bad even for us."

"Tell me about it," Dean mutters. "I'm pretty sure it's only a matter of days before this whole place collapses."

"Let's hope we're out of here by then," Sam replies with a laugh. "I found some interesting stuff."

Dean nods, sitting down on the empty bed, facing Sam. "What d'you got?"

"At least five people died over the last sixty years in the house the couple was found in this week. There might be even more than five – that's just what I got from the first few articles I skimmed," Sam says. "It all sounds pretty standard, if you ask me. Vengeful spirit attached to the house that's killing people who move in. We just gotta get the history of the place, find out who the ghost is, and dig up the body."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean agrees. "Wanna start today?"

Sam glances at his watch, forehead crinkling up in the way it always does when he's thinking about something. "It's too late to hit the library."

"Yeah, well, I was thinking we could check out the house."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Sam asks, frowning. "I really want to have a look at the place's history first, find out what we're dealing with here."

"I'm not saying we try and finish the case tonight, Sammy," Dean replies, rolling his eyes. "Can't hurt to check everything out, right? Get a feel for it. It won't take long, I bet."

Sam looks thoughtful for a moment, head cocked to the side, and Dean curls his hands into fists before he can do something stupid like reach over and touch, smooth out the lines on Sam's forehead. 

It's been getting harder to resist lately. Dean spent years trying to forget about the kiss, pushing it to the back of his mind, and pretending that the big gaping hole in his heart was just him missing his brother. It hurt like a bitch most days, thinking of Sam living a life so different from everything Dean could offer him, but eventually it got better. He stopped thinking about the night Sam had left, kept on going, hunting. Until Sam came back – more mature and more tempting than Dean had remembered. But Dean had resisted. Because Sam was mourning the loss of a girl he'd loved, carried the weight of the world around on his shoulders, and Dean couldn't add to that burden, couldn't bring up what had happened between them and possibly mess up the relationship they were tentatively rebuilding. They carried on as if nothing had happened and it worked for a while. Dean isn't sure what changed, why, after years of repressing what he feels for Sam, his feelings are slowly spinning out of control now.

"Dean?" Sam asks, and the worry in his voice makes Dean look at him. Sam is watching him with a concerned expression.

"Zoned out," Dean mumbles, clearing his throat. "So, you up for a taking a look?"

Sam frowns at him for a short moment, studying him, then shrugs. "Okay, yeah. Just...if something seems strange, we're out of there."

"Sammy, it's a haunted house. That's pretty much the epitome of strange," Dean replies, getting up from the bed.

"You know what I mean, jerk," Sam mutters, sounding unhappy, but he follows Dean out of the motel room without further protest.

The address is outside of town, houses fading into the distance as they drive, and Dean whistles when he finally parks the Impala in front of the house. There's a high iron fence surrounding the property, and the house looks more like a mansion, several stories of sturdy brick covered with vines. It looms in glowing light of the slowly setting sun, looking almost intimidating. 

"Not too shabby," he says, locking the car and pocketing the keys. His eyes travel over the fence. There's probably a security system, and the doors are sealed with yellow police tape.

"Okay, let's find a way in," Sam mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Considering the house looks like it costs more than Dean can dream of making in his life, the security system is pretty standard. Dean disables it without any problems while Sam checks out the fence and entrance. Dean is glad that the house is far enough away from the town that he and Sam are probably the only human beings around for miles, giving them the chance to check the place out without having to worry about getting caught.

"Locked down tight," Sam says, jogging up behind Dean. "We could break the lock, but I think it's probably smarter if we don't. If the local police come back to find any signs of forced entry, they'll just get suspicious."

"So over the fence it is?" Dean asks, glancing up. 

"Yeah. Couldn't find any better options," Sam agrees and Dean sighs. He takes a few steps back, taking a running jump. His hands wrap around the iron bar at the top, and he heaves himself up, feet finding purchase on the top before he lets himself fall down the other side of the fence. He lands on his feet in the soft, overgrown grass and hears the thud of Sam landing on the ground a couple of feet away. 

He stands up, dusting his hands off, and tugs his shirt back into place.

It doesn't take long until they find a window that isn't latched properly, and Dean eases it open, sliding into the house. 

"Ouch," Sam mutters behind him, and when Dean turns around he finds Sam rubbing the top of his head with a grimace.

"That's what you get for being a giant," Dean teases, but he steps a little closer, arm brushing against Sam's.

"Shut up," Sam grouses, but he looks more amused than pissed and Dean grins.

"Okay, game plan. Wanna split up and have a look around?"

Sam sighs, but nods, hand going to the back of his jeans where Dean knows he has his gun tucked away.

Dean takes the ground floor. The kitchen and living room are pretty boring – modern furniture that even Dean can tell looks totally out of place in the old house, a television system that Dean would kill for, and very few things that actually tell Dean anything about the previous owners. There are a few pictures of a couple in their early thirties - Ray and Carol, Dean guesses – smiling happily. The EMF in Dean's hand stays silent.

Another room downstairs has been turned into an office, shelves stacked high with folders, and Dean leafs through a couple of papers on the desk halfheartedly before he abandons that room as well.

The next door leads to an opulent library, full of leather-bound books that look old enough to have been there for decades, and Dean thinks Sam would go nuts in the room. He wonders how many of the books Sam has read. When Sam was a teenager he'd made a list of books he wanted to read, and he had spent whatever free time he had holed up in his room with tattered copies he got from libraries. For every novel he read though, it seemed like he added another three to the list, and Dean loved to sneak glances at it, see what Sam had crossed off and what he'd added to the list. Sometimes, when Dean had a few bucks to spare, he'd drop by bookstores and look for cheap, used copies of novels he knew were still on Sam's list and he'd leave them on Sam's bed for Sam to find that night. Sam never brought it up, but he made sure to read the books where Dean could see – curled up on the couch next to him while Dean watched TV, sitting outside while Dean puttered around with the Impala or sprawling out at the end of Dean's bed while Dean cleaned his gun. Dean doesn't know if Sam did it to show Dean that he appreciated the books, his way of saying thank you, or because he knew Dean got a thrill out of seeing Sam read them.

He wonders what happened to the list – if Sam read every book on it or just forgot about it, if it stopped mattering to him entirely. The thought makes Dean's heart clench a little.

He does a quick scan of the room, walking through it with steady steps and the EMF held high, but nothing happens.

He's almost at the other end of the room when he feels panic surge through him unexpectedly, and he sucks in a breath, unable to place the feeling until he suddenly hears Sam, loud and clear, yelling his name.

Dean whirls around, expecting to see Sam somewhere, but he's alone in the library.

"Sam," Dean calls, running out of the room. The hall is empty and he halts, listening for any sound and looking around frantically because Sam was _right there_ , must have been, because Dean heard him call his name and it sounded as if he was a mere few feet away. 

Dean is only met with silence now, though. 

"Sam! Where the fuck are you?" he calls, gripping his gun tightly.

"Dean. Down here." 

Sam's voice is muffled, barely audible, and coming from the direction of the basement.

Dean frowns in confusion.

This can't be right, he thinks, lifting his gun as he slowly creeps down the stairs. Sam couldn't have gone down there within seconds, couldn't have vanished just like that.

The EMF in Dean's pocket suddenly goes off as Dean nears the bottom, startling him. 

"Sammy?"

"Here," Sam says, voice a little stronger now, coming from behind the thick, wooden door at the bottom of the steps. "I can't get the door open, Dean."

"What happened?" Dean asks, inspecting the door. The lock looks old, and Dean is pretty sure he can kick it open even if it looks solid.

"Got a surprise visit from our friendly ghost," Sam says dryly and Dean can imagine the wry grin on his face, the way he grimaces as he talks. 

"Okay, step back," he orders. 

He gives Sam a couple of seconds and then shuffles back as far as the stairs allow him. He kicks the heel of his foot against the door as forcefully as he can, hearing the splintering sounds of wood as the door swings open.

"Thanks, man," Sam says, looking relieved as the dim light flooding down from upstairs falls onto him, into the darkness of the basement.

"Only you'd get yourself locked in a basement by a ghost, Sam," Dean jibes, but the amusement in his voice vanishes as he gets a good look at Sam and the bleeding scratch on his neck.

"What the fuck?" he asks, stepping closer and reaching up. He tilts Sam's head to the side a little, ignoring the small hiss of pain. "What's this?"

"Vengeful spirit, Dean, remember?" Sam says, voice light. "They're not exactly what I would call nice. She appeared behind me, threw me across the room before I could even think about shooting her."

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. "Scratched my arm up a little, but that's it. Nothing we don't go through on a daily basis."

Dean narrows his eyes and he wants to tell Sam to shut up, because he's not in the mood to make light of things – not with blood trickling down Sam's neck and staining the collar of his t-shirt. 

"I'll burn that fucking bitch," he mutters.

Sam's lips twitch into a smile. 

"You would have anyway," he says. "Now come on, I've seen enough. Let's get out of here, get some dinner, and go back to the motel."

"Fine," Dean agrees curtly, stepping aside to let Sam walk up the stairs in front of him, keeping a close eye on him, but Sam seems fine.

"So, she, huh?" he asks once they've made it back over the fence again.

"Yeah, definitely. We should see if we can find any pictures of people who've lived in the house or something. I'm sure I'd recognize her."

"I bet. She kicked your ass after all," Dean teases. It feels a little forced but the worry is slowly ebbing away. 

They get into the Impala and Dean turns his head, studying Sam for a second as he starts the car.

"Hey, Sam?" he asks. "How long were you locked in down there before I came?"

Sam gives him a puzzled look and a shrug. "A couple of minutes, I guess. Why?"

Dean feels his stomach drop, and he bites his lower lip, staring at the road ahead of them. 

"Nothing," he mumbles with a shrug. "Just asking."

It must have been a fluke, he thinks. Hearing Sam calling his name, right there in the library – it couldn't have happened. Not with Sam having been locked in a room, one floor down. 

Or maybe he's finally cracking and going crazy.


	2. Chapter 2

"It doesn't make sense," Sam says. Their arms brush together as they walk down the narrow sidewalk.

"I take it you didn't find out who our friendly ghost is then?" Dean asks, nodding back to the library Sam just came out of.

Sam frowns, shaking his head. "No."

Dean sighs, loosening the tie from around his neck. "Great."

"There's nothing on the house that might explain the haunting. The spirit – the _girl_ – I saw couldn't have been older than 20, tops. But I couldn't find anything about a girl that age connected to the house," Sam continues. Dean watches him run a hand through his hair, strands sticking up in every direction.

"Doesn't mean there's nothing there. You just couldn't find it."

"Yeah, well, either way that just means solving this case is gonna be a bitch," Sam mutters. "How about the police report? You found anything in there?"

"Nada," Dean replies. "Guess we're gonna have to spend more time in that craphole they call a motel until we figured this out."

"So, next step, talking to the locals?"

"You got it, Sammy."

Sam makes a face, squaring his shoulders. 

"Sometimes I really hate this job, man," he mutters.

By late afternoon, Dean is ready to call it a day and just go back to the motel, have a beer and watch some TV. Apparently, there's never been a more boring, unobtrusive couple than Carol and Ray Marshall, if the stories are to be believed. And Dean believes them, because nobody comes up with stories that lame.

The Marshalls moved into the house eight months ago, and it seems that, though they weren't really recluses, they weren't close to anyone in town either. Always nice, always together, and donating money to the local school, but preferring to keep to themselves. It makes Dean want to gag a little.

"So where to next?" Sam asks as they step out of the diner, the chimes of the door ringing behind them. The elderly waitress they'd just talked to had paled when Sam asked her about the people who'd lived in the house before the Marshalls, listing off the names of people who had died there. The waitress hadn't been much help after that, just muttering about the house being cursed.

Dean rotates his shoulders, groaning when he hears them pop softly. "I need a drink."

"We haven't really found out much yet, Dean."

"And there's no better place to talk to people than at a bar," Dean counters. "Come on, I saw one down the street earlier."

Sam sighs, giving Dean a pointed look, but he follows.

"You must be the infamous agents," the bartender says, grinning at Dean.

Dean rests his elbows on the bar, licks his lips, and returns her smile. "Infamous, huh?" he repeats.

The bartender laughs, flicking a strand of red hair out of her face, and pours the two shots Dean ordered. "Word travels fast in a small town. And we don't have federal agents dropping in too often. Makes people nervous, I guess. Believe me, you've been the talk of the town the whole day."

Dean hums under his breath, watching her as she uncaps two bottles of beer and puts them down next to the shots.

"Everyone's trying to figure out why the FBI would be interested in the death of two ordinary people," she continues and gives Dean a curious look.

"We're not. But when it's not the first two people to die – well, that piques our interest."

She nods. "Yeah, I heard you were asking questions about previous owners of the house," she says. "You really believe there's a connection between those deaths, agent?"

"Dean," Dean offers.

The bartender's lips twitch into a smile. "Lucy," she replies.

"Lucy," Dean says, offering her a smirk. "Would you not say that it looks a little suspicious?"

Lucy shrugs, a curl of hair falling back into her face. "I guess. If the deaths had been closer together and not years apart, maybe. And anyway, most of them died of natural causes," she says, but she sounds unsure. Like she believes the deaths are connected herself and it catches Dean's attention.

"Yeah? Because the local police say so?"

"So, what? You believe there's a serial murder in town? That's ridiculous...he'd be way too old by now."

Dean cocks his head to the side. "So you don't believe that there's a connection? That it's all just a huge coincidence that several people have died in the house without an explanation?"

Lucy takes a slow breath, and even in the dim light of the bar Dean can see that she's a little pale. 

"No," she finally answers.

Dean is about to reply when he feels a shiver run down his spine. Feels like someone is right there, almost touching him. It's a familiar presence, and Dean turns around to face Sam, but the space behind him is empty. Dean's gaze flits to their table just in time to see Sam shift his gaze, looking down, and the feeling leaves Dean. Dean's eyes rest on Sam for a moment, confusion swirling through him, and then he clears his throat, shakes it off. 

Lucy is watching him nervously when he turns back around, and Dean offers her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. 

"Why do you think it's not a coincidence?" he asks.

She just shrugs. "No reason," she says, squaring her shoulders. "That's $13."

Dean slides a few crumpled bills over the counter without counting. "Keep the change," he says. "And there must be a reason."

She doesn't say anything, just picks up the bills and fiddles with them nervously. 

"Come on," he says. "Did you see something? Hear something?"

She shakes her head. "My friend Mitch did," she says, voice softer. "We were teenagers and we were stupid. My mom used to tell me the house was haunted, you know? And we thought it would be fun to sneak into the house at night while it was empty."

She snorts humorlessly, eyes cast down.

"And your friend saw something while you were there?"

"Yeah," she says, looking up at Dean again. "It's impossible. He said...he said he saw a girl. He, uh, he swore it was a _ghost_."

"What else did he say?"

Lucy wipes her eyes. "Nothing. The police said it was because he was in shock; that he was just imagining things."

"The police?" Dean repeats. 

Lucy nods slowly. "Our friend died that night. Inside the house," she explains. "The cops said Monica must have tripped, hit her head. It was just an accident."

Monica. Dean is pretty sure that was one of the names on Sam's list.

"I'm sorry, Lucy," he says. "One more question and then I'll get out of your hair and go back to my partner over there."

He points over his shoulder at Sam and Lucy gives him a weak smile, nodding.

"You said your mom said the house was haunted. Why did she think that?"

Lucy exhales. "My grandma told her stories about it. There was a girl when she was a kid. Theresa Delaney. She vanished one day and nobody ever found out what happened to her, but everyone in town said it was the old man who lived in the house. Said he killed her."

"Why?"

"My grandma said he was creepy. Didn't really interact with anyone in town, except Theresa. He sought her out, made advances," she says with a shrug. "My grandma said the house has been haunted by her ghost ever since. It's crazy, though."

Dean nods, tapping his hand against the counter. "Thanks, Lucy. What you told me might really help us," he says. 

She offers him a smile and a nod before making her way to the other side of the counter where a group of men just sat down.

"Got her number?" Sam asks when Dean puts their drinks down on the table. He sounds off, tense, and Dean raises his eyebrows.

"No, but I think I might have found out who kicked your ass last night," he replies with a smirk, keeping his tone light. "Theresa Delaney."

Sam seems to relax as Dean talks, shoulders dropping and losing some of their tension. "Yeah?"

Dean nods, sliding one of the shots over to Sam. He points over his shoulder at the bar. "Locals seem to think that one of the previous house owners had something to do with Theresa's death and that good little Theresa is haunting the place."

"Awesome. I can't wait to get out of this town," Sam replies, a frown on his face.

Dean cocks his head to the side, studying him. He wonders where Sam's sudden hostility and mood shift came from – it was Dean who'd complained about the motel and town, while Sam had just brushed it all off. 

"Unfortunately, I don't think it's gonna be that easy. Lucy said that Theresa chick vanished. Didn't sound like they ever found the body."

"Lucy?"

"The bartender."

"Of course," Sam mutters, grabbing the shot and throwing it back. Dean watches him with wide eyes.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam huffs, setting the glass back down with a grimace and reaching for his beer. He's never liked hard liquor, and Dean would be amused by the expression of distaste on his face - a mirror image of the first time Dean let Sam do a shot of tequila when they were younger - if something wasn't obviously bothering Sam.

"Wanna tell me what crawled up your ass, man?"

Sam rolls his eyes. He grabs his beer and takes a couple of healthy gulps, no doubt trying to wash the taste of tequila away. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Right."

Sam sighs and gets up from his stool. "I'm getting another shot. You want one too?"

"I'm good. What the hell is wrong?" Dean grabs Sam's wrist, holding on tight enough to keep him in place.

"Nothing," Sam repeats. He twists out of Dean's grip. "Look, I've got a book with me. I can stay here or somewhere else and read for a while if you want the motel room for yourself."

"For what?"

"Lucy." Sam says her name with a grimace, and Dean suddenly gets it, can see the jealously on Sam's face clear as a day. 

"I was talking to her about the case."

"Sure," Sam snorts. "I'm getting more drinks."

Dean lets him go, rolling his eyes, and doesn't watch Sam's retreating back. He wonders who Sam is jealous of, Dean or Lucy, and his stomach twists with something unpleasant. He's not sure what he wants the answer to be, but he knows the thought of it being the latter makes him feel equally terrified and excited.

"Sammy," Dean groans. He tightens his arm around Sam's waist, hoisting him up a little, taking more of Sam's weight as he tries to unlock the door.

"I'm fine," Sam says, voice slurred and breath heavy with alcohol.

"You're wasted," Dean mutters, sighing in relief when the door to their room finally clicks open. He switches on the light with his free hand, dragging Sam inside. Sam makes a noise of protest when the light turns on, and shuffles towards the first bed, Dean's bed, and Dean steers him in the direction of the other one.

"Dean," Sam complains.

"What?"

"Wanna–?"

"What? What d'you want?" Dean asks as Sam flops down onto the bed heavily, back hitting the mattress with a thud and feet dangling off the side. Sam squints up at him, eyes red and a little puffy. He squirms on the mattress, looking unhappy, and Dean holds his gaze, waits for an answer.

"Nothing," Sam mutters, sounding defeated. He turns his head to the side, away from Dean, and Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

The last time Sam asked something of him when he was drunk, he asked for the impossible. Made Dean promise something Dean has no intention of ever doing. He's relieved when Sam stays quiet, letting Dean wrestle him out of his boots and jeans, and then turning over, passing out within a matter of minutes.

Dean wakes up to what feels like an earthquake or maybe the end of the world.

He sits up in his bed, gun in his hand and ready even if his brain his still half-asleep. The bed is shaking underneath him, moving.

"Sam," he says, voice gravelly with sleep, as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room slowly. "Sam!"

"What?" Sam mutters from the bed next to Dean, and just like that everything stops. The room is silent, just the rustling of Sam moving in his bed and Dean's heartbeat strong in his own ears.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam asks, sounding more awake. A moment later the lamp on Sam's bedside table is switched on, basking the room in a too-orange hue.

The good two feet of space that was separating their beds is gone, reduced to a few inches.

Sam blinks at him, then down at their beds. "What did you do?" he asks, rubbing his eyes and looking around the room uncertainly.

"Me?" Dean asks, following Sam's gaze. Nothing else looks out of place. 

"Well, I was asleep. _You_ woke me up, and your bed is right here suddenly, man. What the hell is going on?"

Dean looks at Sam with disbelief. "I was woken up because my bed was _moving_ ," Dean says, and he can't keep the accusation out of his voice.

Sam's eyes widen a little and Dean can hear the slight shakiness in the breath Sam sucks in. "You think," he starts and trails off, before his expression tightens. "Did you check the EMF?"

"Nothing's coming across the salt lines, Sam."

"So you think I did this?" Sam asks, voice a little shriller, a little panicked, hand waving to the non-existent space between their beds.

"Got a better explanation?" Dean snaps, then sighs. He runs a tired hand over his face after dropping the gun onto his lap. "Look, you're the one with the freaky powers."

"Visions."

"Sam, you did it before. Moved things."

Sam sits still for a moment, then he gets out of the bed suddenly, swaying a little as he rushes to the bathroom. He doesn't close the door completely in his haste to get to the toilet, and Dean listens to the sound of Sam retching, emptying his stomach. He leaves Sam alone, knows Sam wouldn't want him to follow. 

Dean gets up inspects and checks the salt lines, which are untouched, and the EMF just to be sure, but everything checks out, and Dean sits back down onto his bed again with a sigh.

Sam is walking unsteadily when he comes back out, probably both from throwing up and the alcohol still in his system, skin looking clammy and pale.

He sinks back onto his bed. 

"I," he starts, then stops, back facing Dean. "Can we just go to bed, Dean? I don't wanna do this tonight."

Dean wants to argue, wants to make Sam talk about this _now_ , but he feels tired suddenly and he hates how resigned Sam sounds. 

"Fine," he grunts. He crawls back under the covers, his back to Sam, and closes his eyes. He doesn't bother moving his bed back to its place.

Sam follows a few moments later, switching the lights off again. 

Dean lies awake in the dark and knows Sam isn't sleeping either, knows that he's probably staring into the darkness, mind whirling with the same thoughts that are going through Dean's head, mere inches away from him. Neither says a word, though, and eventually Dean drifts off.

_"You have to save him, Dean," John says. "And if you can't...you have to kill him if you can't, Dean."_

_Dean wets his lips, feeling helpless as he stares at his father standing opposite him. It's Sam, he thinks, how can I ever kill Sam?_

_"You have to kill him," John repeats, sounding so sure._

_Dean closes his eyes, swallows painfully, and when he blinks them open again Sam is standing where their dad was moments before. Sam looks like hell, pale and sick and there's blood trickling down the side of his face. He looks defeated, pain and regret and fear etched onto his face, everything Dean has always wanted to keep away from Sam. He looks like he knows what's coming, waiting for Dean to pull the trigger._

_Dean lifts the gun, feels his hand shake._

_"Dean," Sam says, voice pleading. And Dean knows he's pleading for Dean to kill him._

_"I can't," Dean says._

Dean sits straight up in bed for the second time in a few hours, heart beating wildly. 

Sam is asleep in his bed, inches away, and Dean feels sick.

"I'll get us coffee," Dean says with a sigh, pushing his chair away from the table. 

Sam looks up from the computer screen he's been staring at, looking a little pale. "Tea."

"Fine, I'll get you a tea," Dean replies, rolling his eyes just because he knows it's what Sam's expecting of him. He doesn't tell Sam that the only reason he's getting anything is because Sam looks like he might keel over any time, or at least puke all over the computer.

Dean makes it out of the stuffy library, nodding at the librarian on his way out. 

He hides Sam's tea from her sight when he gets back in.

"Are you finding everything you need, agent?" the librarian asks when Dean passes her and Dean puts on a fake smile.

"We're fine, ma'am. Thank you," he says, waving her off.

Sam is staring at the screen again, clicking through scans of old newspaper articles. 

"Find anything?" Dean asks, setting the tea down next to Sam's elbow.

"Hmm. Yeah. Nothing helpful though," he sighs, pushing back a little and rubbing his eyes.

Dean wants to reach out and brush the strands of hair away from his face, massage Sam's neck to relieve some of the tension.

He clears his throat. "So that Theresa chick vanished?"

"Yeah. 1943. Theresa Delaney, 19, vanished on April 2nd without a trace. She was engaged to Brett Rutherford, high school sweethearts. According to the articles, nobody seemed to think she had a reason to run away. Everyone thought something must have happened to her. Sheriff brought in a guy named Carter Dillard but released him again after questioning. Her body was never found," Sam recounts, running a hand over his face. "I looked up that Dillard guy as well – he lived in the Marshall's house back then. Died there in 1948, at the age of 58. Suicide."

"Or maybe not."

"Or maybe not," Sam agrees, reaching for the tea and taking a careful sip. Dean watches his face closely, almost expecting Sam to throw it back up like he did with his breakfast a few hours earlier. He feels better when Sam keeps the tea down, taking a bigger gulp after a moment. Sam has been deathly pale since they got up, dark rings under his eyes.

It's going to be okay, Dean wants to say. He wants to tell Sam that he's safe, that Dean isn't going to let anything happen to him. That whatever's going on, Dean is going to be there. Is going to find a way to fix things.

"So, say Lucy's grandmother was right. Dillard was interested in Theresa, she wasn't interested in him. He killed her, hid her body, and her spirit now haunts the house. All we need is her body then," Dean says instead.

"From what I found out about Dillard he was pretty much a recluse. Bought the house in the late 1930's and didn't really leave the place much," Sam says. "I'd bet he didn't hide her body too far from his house."

Sam sighs then. "Doesn't narrow it down much though. It could take us forever to find her."

"No," Dean says. "We'll find a way."

He's not really talking about Theresa Delaney anymore.

They make it through lunch in almost absolute silence. Dean waits for Sam to start talking about the night before, but he doesn't, focusing on the case and poring over articles he printed out instead, looking for clues about the location of the body.

Dean sits at the small table in their motel room, eating his burger as he pretends to read, and sneaks glances at Sam. 

"What?" Sam finally asks, looking up with a sigh.

Dean shrugs. "Think we should talk."

Sam tenses visibly and looks down, hands tightly clenching the papers he's holding. "Dean."

"Look, Sam. I get it, okay? I don't particularly feel like sitting down and discussing this either."

Sam snorts. "What's there to talk about? So it turns out I have more than one freakish power. We knew I might, after what I did in Saginaw."

Dean laughs hollowly. "That was almost a year ago," he says. "That was a--a freak accident."

"I moved something with my mind, Dean. _Of course_ it wasn't going to be a one time thing. Are you really surprised by all of this? Are you really trying to tell me you didn't see it coming?"

Dean looks away from Sam. He didn't, he thinks. He had for a while, waiting for it to happen again, but when it didn't he'd stopped thinking about it, focusing on everything else that was going on. But he can't say he's surprised either, not after everything they've been through. Some days he thinks nothing will ever surprise him again. 

And then there was what had happened the night before, at the house, Dean in the library and Sam in the basement and his voice calling out Dean's name, right there in the room with Dean. Dean shakes his head, tries not to think about that, because Sam moving things is enough. It has Sam freaked out enough. He doesn't need to add more to it, he decides, especially if it might not have been anything. Maybe Dean imagined it - and even if he didn't, it doesn't matter unless it happens again. He can keep it to himself for now and as long as it doesn't happen again, Sam doesn't need to know about it. 

Sam throwing things around with his mind, though, is another matter. It's something they can't ignore – not anymore.

"So now what?" he asks.

"Now we finish this case," Sam says resolutely. "We can deal with everything after this is done."

"Sam."

"Dean. There's an angry spirit killing people. Can we please focus on that and deal with all the other shit once we're done?"

"Fine, but I'm not dropping this. Got it?" Dean says, giving Sam a pointed look until Sam nods, a frown on his face. "So, any ideas?"

"I think the house is actually our best shot," Sam says, sounding relieved. He slides a notebook over to Dean. "That's a list of all the people who've died in the house."

Dean looks at the neat columns. Names on one side, dates next to them, and then the place where they died.

Sam leans over the table, tapping a pen against the last column. "See that? I couldn't find out where some of the bodies in the house were found because some of the articles weren't too detailed, but whenever they mentioned a room it was always the basement. Your EMF didn't go off in any of the rooms on the ground floor you said, but it did in the basement, and I only saw Theresa's ghost when I was downstairs."

"Huh," Dean says, scanning the list again. "So the rooms set her off?"

Sam shrugs. "My guess is that the spirit is connected to it."

"So you think that's where her bones are?"

"Maybe. It's worth a shot," Sam says, and shrugs.

"Yeah, I guess it's our best bet right now. Plus, if Dillard really was that much of a recluse, he probably didn't go far to hide the body, and what's a better place than your own basement?"

Sam nods, gathering the papers into a neat pile. "My thoughts exactly."

They better be right, Dean thinks, because he wants to get this job over with. They have far more important things on their plate right now than some ghost out for revenge.

"Stupid fucking bitch," Dean mutters, reloading his sawed-off as the sound of his last shot still echoes through the basement.

"Wanna trade?" Sam asks, sounding a little out of breath.

Dean hands over the shotgun and accepts the pick Sam gives him. The basement is a mess, the floor broken open sporadically. Dean's glad the house is old and the floor is easy enough to break open. 

He feels sweat trickling down his face, smears of dirt everywhere as he picks up the pick and slams it into the ground.

His shirt is completely soaked, face caked with dirt, and endless rounds of salt have been fired when Sam finally finds the first bones two hours later - at the other end of the basement, because life is a fucking bitch sometimes.

"Oh god, finally," Dean groans, wiping his brow, and when he meets Sam's eyes, Sam grins. He looks ridiculous, with his hair sticking to his face, dirty from head to toe, but Dean can't help returning the smile.

This is Sam, he thinks, the kid he took care of all his life, the person his world has revolved around for just as long. Sam, who he loves and trusts and depends on. It's Sam. And if Dean could handle the visions, he thinks, he'll find a way to handle Sam moving things with his mind as well.

They leave the town that night after a long shower. Two hours out of Smithfield, Dean finds a drive-through, gets them food, and then drives another twenty minutes before parking the Impala on the side of the empty highway.

"Maybe I can learn to control it," Sam says, dunking one of his almost-cold fries into the ketchup.

Dean chews on the last bite of his burger, taking his time. "You can't control your visions," he says.

"So, what? You think I'll just randomly move things from now on? Great. That'd be really great."

"Sam." Dean reaches for his soda, washes a couple of fries down with it. "I'm just saying it's a possibility that you can't control this."

Sam is silent for a while, staring down at the bag of fries in his lap but not touching them. 

"Look, I know you don't like it, Dean, and I don't like it either. Okay? And I don't like the thought of learning how to use these powers, but I can't just-- move things around without any control. The visions we can explain with migraines, but this? This is a little too freaky to explain away, Dean."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Dean asks.

"Then I gotta try," Sam says, sounding sad. "Max controlled it. Andy and Ansem controlled their powers, too. Right now, I think that's our best shot, right?"

Dean sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly. "Yeah, it is," he agrees, then nudges Sam's arm. "Eat up. We're gonna be on the road for a while."

"Got somewhere we need to be?" Sam asks.

Dean balls up the wrapper of his cheeseburger, stuffing it into his empty paper cup. "Just wanna get away," he mutters.

Sam snorts humorlessly. "You ever notice that that's all we do? Trying to get away from places as fast as possible?" he asks, sounding bitter. Wistful.

Dean sighs and doesn't bother answering. He knows how Sam feels about this, about their life on the road, never staying anywhere for more than a few days, and he doesn't have to talk about it. Doesn't want to talk about it. Stanford said more than words ever could have anyway. 

"I was thinking maybe Texas if we don't find a job before then. It's warm there," he says, turning on the music before Sam can answer.

He doesn't.

When Dean glances at him a couple of minutes later, Sam is leaning his head against the window, staring out into the darkness with a frown on his face.

They don't make it to Texas. Three dead college students in Gadsden, Alabama, their corpses found in warehouses with symbols carved into their skin, make sure of that.

Fucking demons, Dean thinks, slapping the tiny notebook he's been pretending to scribble in shut.

"I think that's it for now," he says, smiling at the guy they were interviewing. Ryan, Dean thinks. Or Dylan. Or Bryan. Something ending with -an, anyway. Not that it matters, because the kid has been rambling on for what feels like an eternity, spouting off useless facts and rumors about his now-dead roommate, but nothing that pointed to what killed him. Not that Dean has any doubt after getting a closer look at the corpses earlier, at the bloody symbols etched into skin. It's a demon. The question is how to find that demon, and Dean had really hoped someone close to the victims might give them a clue.

"What if I remember something else? Something, you know, helpful?" Ryan asks, wetting his lips, and looking almost hopeful.

"We can leave you a number you can call in case you think of anything else," Dean offers, glancing at Sam who looks less than happy. His jaw is set, brows furrowed and his arms are crossed over his chest, making his shoulders look ridiculously broad and damn it, Dean really shouldn't be thinking about that.

"Oh," Ryan says, biting down on his lip and looking at Dean from beneath his lashes. Dean knows when he's being checked out, and this guy really is not going for subtlety. For a second Dean even entertains the idea before pushing the thought out of his mind. "I can ask around for you – I know lots of people on campus. And we could meet up again? To talk? There's a good bar downtown..."

Yeah, right, Dean thinks and smirks. 

The smirk slips from his lips when the large bookcase in the corner of the room crashes down, landing just a couple of feet away from them. 

Dean's hand goes to his gun immediately, but then his eyes find Sam who is breathing hard, shaking a little, eyes wide and _holy fucking shit_. 

"We should leave," Dean says, voice pressed, grabbing Sam's arm. He turns to Ryan, offers him a tight smile. "You, uh, should make sure your bookcase is more stable in the future. That could have hurt someone."

He drags Sam out of the room and out of the crappy apartment building without looking back. Sam doesn't protest, lets Dean push and pull him along.

"What the hell was that?" Dean hisses once they're inside the Impala, doors firmly shut. "Seriously, Sam. What the hell?"

Sam doesn't meet his eyes, looks just as shocked as Dean feels, face pale, and when he runs a hand over his face, Dean can see the tremor. 

"I don't know what just happened," Sam admits.

"Well, I can tell you. You moved a bookcase with your freaky telekinesis stuff," Dean replies, voice clipped. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I wasn't," Sam finally snaps, curling his hands into fists. "Okay? I wasn't thinking, _oh, it would be fun to tip over that bookcase_. I don't _control_ this shit, I told you. It just happens."

"Well, find a way for it not to happen again!"

"I didn't mean to," Sam says, anger leaving his voice, and he sounds more desperate than anything. Lost.

Dean sighs, taking a deep breath to calm down. 

"I know. I'm not saying you do," he says, reaching out until his hand touches Sam's elbow. Sam doesn't make a move, looking out the window. "Hey, Sammy, look at me."

"Dean," Sam says, and it sounds more like a warning. Let it go, he's trying to say, but Dean doesn't. For once, he's not going to let things slide. 

"Look, what happened in there? The fact that you're moving things with your mind and have no control over it?" Dean starts, letting his hand slide from Sam's arm. "That scares the shit out of me, Sam."

"Don't you think it doesn't scare me too?" Sam asks with a humorless snort.

"No, I know it does. I just—I didn't handle that too well right now, okay? 's all I'm saying."

Sam meets his eyes then, a hint of a smile on his face. "Are you apologizing?"

"No," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Just making sure you get it."

"Same thing."

"Whatever. I'm not apologizing."

"Fine," Sam says. "But just so you know, apology accepted."

Dean grimaces. "Fucking pain in the ass," he says, then turns back around in his seat and starts the car. "Let's just go find this fucking demon, okay?"

_"And if I ever turn into something that I'm not – you have to kill me," Sam says._

Dean blinks awake, feeling frozen. Another nightmare. Just another nightmare, he silently tells himself. He's lost count of how many times he's had dreams like this in the last few weeks.

He's too exhausted to move – both mentally and physically - so he takes in a shuddering breath and then lets it out slowly, staring at the dark ceiling above him. The bed springs creak as he turns onto his side.

He can make out the shape of Sam in the other bed, can see the gentle rise and fall as Sam breathes.

He's here, in the room. He's alive and safe and Sam. Just Sam, his little brother, his family.

Dean closes his eyes again and pretends it's not tears that are making his eyes burn.

Safe, he repeats to himself. Sam is safe. Fine. 

He might not always be, a voice in his head adds. Sam might not always be _Sam_ , and Dean has no idea what he'll do if things come to that. He doesn't know how he could possibly ever do what Sam asked of him, what their dad asked of him. How he could ever point a gun at Sam and pull the trigger. 

Whatever John feared might happen, Dean thinks it can't be worse than the thought of having to stop Sam, of having to kill Sam.

Dean takes in a breath and turns onto his back again. He's not going to let it happen, simple as that.

Sam's not turning into whatever John feared he might turn into. He's not turning into what Sam is afraid he might turn into. Because destiny is bullshit, and Dean knows that if there's one person on the planet who is innately good, it's Sam, and he's not going to let anything in the world change that.

It takes two days and what feels like a million interviews before they finally track down the demon in an abandoned house outside of the city. She has a girl with her, early twenties and scared out of her mind, blood trickling down her arm. Dean has never been more glad to have Sam at his side, because god knows he's always sucked at this Latin crap. He's much better with knives and guns, so he leaves the exorcism to Sam. It doesn't, unfortunately, mean they finish the job without any complications.

The girl is in shock but the gash on her arm isn't too bad and she's unharmed otherwise. Dean, however, knows he's going to be black and blue the next day from where the demon threw him into a wall before Sam could finish the exorcism. Sam isn't doing much better; Dean can tell from the way he's favoring his left arm that he's hurt.

"You okay?" he asks once they've dropped the girl off.

"Shoulder," Sam grunts. "Nothing a few painkillers and sleep can't fix though."

Dean runs his gaze up and down Sam's body anyway, checking him over, before he eases the Impala back onto the road. There are no visible injuries he can make out, but Dean knows that doesn't mean Sam is okay.

When Sam was fourteen he got concussed, and he didn't say anything until he fainted in the middle of the crappy house John had rented for the summer. Three years later, Sam broke his arm and didn't bother mentioning it until the next afternoon because he had a test in the morning that he didn't want to miss. Dean's learned to make sure for himself that Sam is really okay, no matter what Sam might claim.

"Dibs on the shower," Sam says, voice tight, before they even reach the motel.

Dean sends him a glare but doesn't protest, would have let Sam take the first shower anyway, even if he hadn't said anything.

Back in their room, he gives Sam a few moments before strolling into the bathroom. Sam has taken his shirt off, fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans, and he looks up in surprise. It feels like a punch to the gut, seeing Sam like that, so gorgeous and vulnerable and everything Dean can't have, isn't supposed to even want to have.

"I'm taking a shower, Dean," Sam says. "Would you mind?"

"Would you shut up?" Dean replies, stepping closer and ignoring the emotions coursing through him. He curls his hand around Sam's elbow and tugs him around. "I just wanna take a look at your shoulder."

"It's fine," Sam says, but he turns around.

There's a big, ugly bruise forming on his shoulder, and Dean hisses. He reaches out, fingers carefully pressing against the edge of where Sam's skin is turning purple and Sam flinches, twisting away.

"It's just a bruise," he complains and Dean lets him turn back around.

"Okay, fine," he gives in. "I'll get you some painkillers."

"I can get them myself," Sam replies, sounding more amused than anything else.

Dean frowns, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Fine," Sam says, a smile tugging at his lips. "Get me painkillers. Can I take a shower now though? I feel disgusting."

"Whatever," Dean says with a shrug, turning to leave, and mutters, "Fucking princess."

"Overprotective asshole," Sam calls after him and then shuts the door.

Dean ignores it. Just like he ignores the image of Sam, shirtless, hair falling into his eyes, the crappy bathroom light throwing shadows across his body. Just like he ignores the ugly bruise, the knowledge that it's going to hurt like a bitch for a few days, that being cramped in the car is going to be uncomfortable for Sam for a while. He ignores all of it, keeps his mind blank, as he retrieves the painkillers and then searches for one of the few last clean shirts stuffed at the bottom of his duffel bag.

"How's the shoulder?" Dean asks, handing Sam a beer.

"Okay," Sam replies, taking the bottle with his left hand, and that's really all Dean needs to know. 

He leans against the hood of the Impala, twists the cap off his own bottle. "You should take a couple more painkillers before we get back on the road," he suggests.

"We're almost out."

"We can buy more," Dean replies with a shrug, looking off into the distance. There's nothing there, and Dean thinks he likes places like this best. Places where there's nothing for miles and miles – no people, no demons, no ghosts. Nothing to fight, no one to save. 

Sam moves next to him, feet kicking up dust and dirt. "'s there a reason why you wanted to stop here?" he asks.

Dean shrugs, doesn't move his gaze. "Got nowhere to be, do we?" he replies, then takes a swig of beer. 

They stand side by side, staring off into the distance, and drink.

"We should try to figure out what triggers them," Dean says into the silence, trying to sound casual.

"What?"

Dean sighs, finally looks at Sam. "Your powers. The whole controlling your telekinesis thing? If we find out what triggers it, you could get a handle on them, right?"

"I don't think it's gonna be that easy," Sam says with a wry smile. "And I have no idea what triggers it. It just--happens."

"Your visions aren't random. This probably isn't either. Come on, you were the one who suggested controlling this, I'm just going along with what you want here," Dean argues. "That bookcase. When you tipped that over. What was it? Were you pissed? Did you feel threatened in any way?"

"It doesn't matter, Dean," Sam says, voice quiet.

Dean cocks his head, studies Sam's face. There's resignation there, anger maybe. "So you know what it was? Why it happened?"

"No."

"Come on," Dean says. "Don't try to bullshit me, Sammy. I'm the one who taught you all the tricks, I can tell when you're lying."

Sam grunts, brings the beer bottle to his lips.

"Sam."

Sam angles his body away just the tiniest bit, enough for Dean to notice, and his expression is pinched now. It's so familiar, the way Sam looks when he's getting irritated, that Dean feels it tug at his heart. 

"I didn't like it," Sam finally says, voice clipped. "The way he was looking at you. Talking to you."

It takes a moment for the words to register, and then Dean lets out a started laugh. "Flirting? You didn't like that some kid was flirting with me?" he asks. "It's not like that's the first time someone hit on one of us on the job, dude."

"It was different."

"Because it was a guy?" Dean guesses and frowns when Sam's expression darkens. "Are you serious? _You_ of all people have a problem with that?"

"With what?"

"That the kid was gay."

Sam snorts. "I don't care if he liked girls or guys or freaking ponies, Dean."

"You don't?" Dean asks, feels his stomach drop and he kicks the ground in front of him with a humorless laugh. "Cause that's exactly what it sounds like to me. And I gotta tell you, that's rich coming from you, really."

"Well, you're wrong," Sam repeats and before Dean can say anything he goes on. "Believe me, I don't care. As you said, would be rich coming from me, considering I've been with guys."

Dean stops for a moment. He feels jealousy settle in his stomach, hot and sudden and irrational. "You have?" he asks, and he sounds more pissed than he intended to.

"Been to college, haven't I? Believe me, those rumors about college kids experimenting? Aren't all false."

"You never told me."

"Like you never told me about the guys you've slept with?" Sam asks, and the surprise must show on Dean's face, because the next instant Sam huffs out a laugh. "Oh, come on, you think I didn't know? We've basically been living on top of each other all our lives. And you're a sucky liar, Dean. I know there's been a couple of guys you, you know, tried stuff with."

Dean runs a hand down his face, shaking his head. 

"That's not the point," he grunts after a moment. "We were talking about you throwing things around with your mind, remember?"

"What else is there to say?"

"You still haven't told me why you were so pissed at the guy for flirting with me," Dean says.

Sam finishes his beer, pushes himself away from the Impala.

"Sam."

"I don't wanna talk about it. I'll find a way to get this thing under control, somehow, and you don't have to worry about it anymore," Sam says, offering Dean a forced smile. He gets back into the Impala, leaves Dean standing alone.

Dean wants to pull the door to the passenger seat back open, demand an answer he knows he's not going to get. He clenches his fists and wants to throttle Sam. Because not knowing the answer is making Dean's mind whirl with thoughts, with possibilities. With hope.

Sam is quiet for the rest of the drive. He looks out of the window, refusing to meet Dean's eyes, ignores Dean when he turns up the volume of the music, even though Dean can see his fingers twitch and his jaw clench, doesn't react to Dean's sighs and grunts. Dean almost pulls over on the side of the road again three times, with the urge to grab Sam and make him talk.

Dean feels frustrated, feels anger and fear and uncertainty and it's making his head spin.

This was never how it was supposed to be, not what he imagined when he went to Stanford to ask Sam for help all those months ago, when he finally got Sam back here where he belonged. In the car with Dean. And now, months later, here they are. Dad is gone, Sam has freaking powers that Dean pretends don't freak him out, don't make his stomach twist with fear and worry, don't make him lie awake at night unable to sleep as his mind runs through endless possibilities of what could happen, what this could lead to. Above all, Dean was never supposed to have these feelings for Sam, and he thinks that scares him more than anything – that he can barely look at Sam these days without wanting to touch, to kiss, to take things he can't have.

"I'm taking a shower," Sam says, before Dean has even had time to put down his duffel bag, and vanishes into the bathroom without another word.

Dean flops down on the bed with a groan and waits. He waits for what feels like an eternity. Then he switches on the TV, just to fill the silence, starts cleaning his guns and keeps waiting.

Things have been tense for days, silent hours spent in the Impala driving, and Dean hopes they find a new job soon. He thinks maybe it'll make him feel better if he just gets to shoot something, blow off some steam. Maybe it's what Sam needs, too, to get him out of the funk he's been in for days. 

One hour later and Dean's had enough of whatever game Sam is playing and gets up from the bed, stomping to the bathroom and slapping the open palm of his hand against the door.

"Sam, get your ass out here. Some people actually need to use the bathroom," he yells.

There's a moment of silence, and Dean starts to feel his annoyance give way for sudden worry, then he hears shuffling from inside the bathroom and the lock clicks open.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Dean says before the door is even fully open. 

Sam looks back at him, face a little too pale, expression a little too pinched. 

"Sam?" Dean asks, looking Sam up and down quickly. He's wearing the clothes he's worn all day, and his hair is still dry, save for the few strands clinging to his forehead with sweat. Whatever he's been doing, he definitely hasn't been taking a shower for the past sixty minutes. "What the fuck are you doing in there?"

"What d'you think?" Sam counters, sounding more tired than anything else.

It dawns on Dean then and he reaches out, grabbing Sam's elbow just to touch, to steady. "Have you been in there trying to _move_ stuff?" Dean demands, voice gruff, and Sam grimaces.

"How else do you expect me to get this under control?" 

Dean sucks in a breath, lets it back out and tugs on Sam's arm until Sam steps out of the bathroom. 

"I didn't expect you to try that shit without letting me know first," Dean says, voice tight. His fingers hover over Sam's arm as he leads Sam back to the bed. "Next time do it in here where I can see you."

Sam sinks down onto the mattress, looking worn out, and Dean sighs.

"Sammy," he says.

"I just thought -- I don't want to accidentally hit you in the head with anything or whatever. God knows what will happen when I actually try using this telekinesis crap on purpose instead of accidentally."

"And you think trying them out locked in a room on your own is better?" Dean asks. "Your visions almost make you black out, you think this is going to be any different?"

"'s been okay the few times it's happened."

"Yeah, well, let's not count on that, okay?"

Sam cracks a small smile then, and Dean feels some of the tension drain from him. 

"So, uh," Dean starts, waving his hand in the direction of the bathroom. "You've been trying to use your powers these last few days?"

Sam nods.

"And?" Dean prods, licking his lips, looking at Sam expectantly.

Sam snorts. "Yeah, it's not working too well so far," he admits. "I think I moved your toothbrush the other day."

Dean offers Sam a small smile. "That's something, right?" he asks. "You'll get the hang of it. It's not gonna happen within a few days, Sammy."

"I hope so," Sam says, then shrugs. "I wish I didn't have to use them at all. I wish I could just...ignore that I can even do this stuff."

"Yeah," Dean agrees and sighs, sitting down on his own bed across from Sam. They stay silent for a few moments, Sam looking down at his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He breaks the silence with a small snort.

"It's fucked up," he says. "Everything's so damn fucked up."

"Yeah. Well, we hunt monsters for a living. Nothing's ever been normal for us," Dean concedes and, when Sam finally meets his eyes, they both crack a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam is staring intently at the crumpled burger wrapper, brow creased and lips pursed.

Dean kicks him under the table. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sam looks up, startled, then flushes a little. "Just trying to, you know, move that," he says, gesturing his hand at the table.

Dean sighs, looking down at the unmoving wrapper and shakes his head. "I think you've tried enough for one day," he says, thinking back to earlier, to how exhausted Sam had looked after the hour he'd spent locked up in the bathroom before Dean had dragged him out to eat the lunch he'd gotten for them. "Don't wear yourself out."

"Nothing's happening anyway," Sam mutters, looking a little frustrated.

Dean pushes away from the table, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'm hitting the can," he says. "Don't trash the room while I'm gone."

Sam makes a protesting noise and Dean only smirks, sauntering to the bathroom with a chuckle. He's still smiling as he closes the bathroom door behind him, hands reaching for his buckle before he's even reached the toilet. 

There's a loud splintering noise and a bang as the door hits the wall, then deafening silence. 

Dean turns around, belt and the button of his jeans undone, and stares out of the door that is now open again at Sam, who's still sitting at the table and staring right back, slack-jawed.

"Did you just?" Dean asks, looking from the door to Sam.

Sam flushes. "I swear I have no idea how that happened," he rushes out. 

"So you can't deliberately move a crumpled piece of paper but you can open closed doors?" Dean asks. 

"Uh, apparently?" Sam says, shifting uneasily on his chair.

Dean sighs. "Okay, I really do need to piss, but we're talking about this when I get back," he says, sending Sam a glare. He closes the door again, wincing when it doesn't latch anymore. He undoes his jeans and glances at the door, almost expecting it to open again. It stays shut, and Sam gives him a sheepish look when Dean finally emerges from the bathroom.

"Sorry about that," he says.

"Yeah, whatever, Sammy. Just...any idea why the hell that just happened?" Dean asks.

The flush still coloring Sam's cheeks darkens and he avoids Dean's eyes. "I, uh, I was distracted. I don't know."

"Distracted?"

"Yeah?"

Dean gives Sam an expectant look, sitting back down across from him. "By what?"

Sam sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Dean, I think -- actually, I'm pretty sure that this telekinesis stuff is, uh, connected to my emotions," he says after a moment, biting down on his lower lip. "The first time, when Max--he was about to kill you. And the guy in Gadsden, I was pretty pissed then."

"Cause he flirted with me," Dean says, unable to stop himself. He waits for Sam to react, to protest again but he doesn't. He just nods slowly.

"Yeah. That."

"And just now?"

If anything, Sam's blush darkens, two bright red spots coloring his cheeks, and he looks away. "I was _distracted_ ," he repeats, voice laced with embarrassment. 

Dean feels his heartbeat pick up and he leans forward a little, eyes not leaving Sam. He feels torn for a moment between wanting to push this and wanting to give Sam space, let Sam take his time. He's been _not pushing_ Sam for five years, since the day Sam kissed him in the hallway of the crappy house they'd been renting for the summer, heat and tension thick in the air around them and Sam looking at him nervously, so damn young and unsure. 

"Distracted by me," he finally says.

Sam nods. 

"So you, uh, felt, you know," Dean says, gesturing at Sam, and Sam runs a hand over his face.

"Yeah, well, you were giving me this look," Sam says, sounding accusing. "And you're down to your last pair of jeans."

"So?"

"It's a really old pair of jeans," Sam mumbles. "They doesn't really _fit_ you anymore."

Dean cocks his head and then grins. "Oh," he says, laughs and his chest feels constricted, hope and anxiety and happiness and _fear_. Five years of repressing and avoiding, and it's Sam having freaking telekinetic powers that's finally forcing them to acknowledge this. 

Sam sighs, glaring at him and pushing away from the table, getting up and sitting back down on his bed instead. Putting distance between them, Dean thinks. 

"This is totally screwed up," Sam says with a grimace, gesturing between them.

"You're just now noticing that?" Dean counters, and Sam laughs wryly.

"No," he says. "No. It's not like I could ever forget."

"Could have fooled me."

"You think I don't think about it all the time? About that night?" Sam asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

Dean shrugs uncomfortably, twisting to sit sideways on the chair, facing Sam. "Do you?"

"Of course. I always did, Dean," Sam says. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, shrugging. "Even. Even when I was with Jess."

"Sam."

"I loved her," Sam continues. "I really loved her. But I couldn't stop thinking about you. About kissing you."

Dean takes a breath, wants to reply when Sam meets his eyes, looking dejected.

"I just thought—When I kissed you, I knew I was leaving. And I didn't think I'd ever come back. Not after the fight I had with dad. So I thought, what the hell, right? If I was never seeing you again then I might as well be selfish one last time and take what I wanted," Sam says and he looks _sad_ , and Dean wants to reach out and touch him. He stays where he is. "I wanted it so bad and I knew I could never have it. And then you fucking had to kiss me back."

"I always thought that's generally what people want when they kiss you," Dean bites out, because Sam sounds upset and it fucking hurts. Hurts to talk about this, remembering the way the kiss had thrown Dean for a loop, and waking up the next morning to an empty house.

"Of course I wanted you to kiss me back. I think I spent _hours_ imaging exactly that happening. But I didn't think that you'd ever do it in a million years. That you'd ever want that with me," Sam says and then snorts. "I was actually expecting you to punch me in the face. But I thought if I was leaving anyway, why should it matter if I gave you one more reason to hate me, right? Might have actually made it easier."

Dean sighs, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. "What d'you want me to say, Sam? That I'm sorry I kissed you back?"

"No. No, of course not," Sam says, shaking his head. "What I'm trying to say is, I guess, that you gave me a taste of what I wanted when you kissed me back but even then I still couldn't have the whole thing. And that sucked so much more than if you'd just rejected me."

"You could have stayed," Dean says, his voice cracking, and he looks down at his hands. It's what has bothered him the most all these years, that Sam left even after the kiss. That Dean would have given him that, would have given him anything, but even then Sam chose to leave. Even then all that Dean had to offer wasn't enough to make Sam change his mind and stay with him.

"I couldn't," Sam says softly. "Dean. I couldn't have stayed. Not with the way things were with me and Dad. We would have killed each other."

"It wasn't that bad."

Sam chuckles. "You know it was. I just...I wanted different things and Dad never got that."

"You wanted a normal life."

"Yeah, that's why I kissed you. Cause I wanted to be normal so bad," Sam says sarcastically. "I just wanted a life that was safe, man. I wanted to have a place I could actually call home, wanted to be in one place long enough to actually make friends."

"And now you're back here," Dean says bitterly, getting up from the chair. He gathers the trash from the table, not facing Sam.

"Dean. That's not what I'm trying to say," Sam says, and Dean hears the creak of the bed springs as Sam stands back up. "Things are different now. I know better now."

"Do you?"

Sam closes the distance between them, grabbing Dean's arm and halting Dean's movements. "I do. How can I not after everything that's been happening?" Sam asks. "Everything that has happened."

Dean's shoulders slump. Jess, he thinks, it's still about Jess. It might always be about Jess and how can Dean compete with that?

"So," he says, shifting to face Sam. They're close enough that Dean can feel the warmth of Sam's body, can smell the mixture of cheap cologne and sweat. "What now?"

Sam licks his lips, and Dean's eyes follow the movement. He could lean up, close the distance between them, but he doesn't. Just waits for Sam to say or do something instead.

"I don't know," Sam admits after a moment, and he sounds defeated. Worn out. "I don't know if I can do this, Dean."

Dean gives him a sad smile, taking a step back. Sam's hand falls from his arm. "Well, let me know if you figure it out," he says, and he can't keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice.

Dean makes them stop at a laundromat the next day. He feels childish for doing it, but pretends it's because he really is running out of clothes and not because he wants to remind Sam of what happened the day before. He doesn't even really know how doing laundry would rub it in, that Sam was watching him, thinking about him, but it feels like it anyway. Like washing his clothes so he can wear a pair of jeans that apparently won't make Sam crazy will somehow get to Sam.

Sam doesn't show any sign of reaction, though. He sits on one of the uncomfortable, metallic seats, too long legs stretched out and brushing against the nearest washing machine, and reads. The book is old, leather-bound and edges frayed, and Dean thinks it must be something he borrowed from Bobby. Something about demons and spirits or any of the other stuff they hunt. It's been years, before Stanford, since Dean has seen Sam read other books, things that were just for fun – anything that was on Sam's list. Sam loved the classics and hated all the modern sci-fi novels because they reminded him too much of their life. The fictional world, the escape those books represented to others, were just another reminder of how different Sam's life was, of the truths he knew. Sam found his escape in Updike, Roth, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Hemingway. Anything Sam could get his hands on. He'd made Dean read a couple of them, but Dean never understood how Sam could find happiness in those stories. To him, they were much more depressing than science fiction ever could be.

Dean sighs, pushing his thoughts away, and heaves himself up onto the washing machine. He feels it spin underneath him, the vibrations shaking his body, and he looks back at Sam, lets himself watch Sam, knowing Sam is too lost in whatever he's reading to catch Dean looking.

For all that they bicker and tussle, all the screaming matches they've had and the times they've wrestled not so playfully, they rarely get like this – days stretching without the tension between them dissolving, conversations kept to a minimum. They're not fighting, and Dean thinks maybe that's the worst, because fighting means you eventually make up, that you can fix things. 

Part of Dean understands Sam, even feels a little ridiculous for being upset with Sam because they've ignored the kiss for years. He accepted that, _despite_ the kiss, Sam might not feel the same way, and he was okay with that. But knowing that Sam had wanted him back then and still does now, apparently, changes things. It makes it harder to ignore the ache in his chest when he looks at Sam, the urge to touch and kiss, the want inside. He can't blame Sam for not acting on his feelings, for still holding back, because things are so much more complicated between them. And he can't blame Sam for pushing him away either. Sam might love Dean, might have loved Dean long before he loved Jess, but Dean knows that all of Sam's hopes and dreams, the life he'd craved and thought he found, died in the fire Palo Alto, together with the girl who had given him everything his family had never been able to. And Sam has been punishing himself for Jess's death ever since – now he's punishing Dean for it, too.

Dean was willing to give Sam this, _them_ , for the second time now. He was offering Sam to give him anything he wanted - and for the second time it wasn't enough.

Dean's going to give in eventually, is going to forgive Sam and let things slide. He knows he will. Because it's Sam, and Dean would rather go back to pretending than lose Sam over this. But for now, Dean lets the distance grow and hopes that things will become easier with time.

The Impala's A/C is broken, and they have the windows rolled down, letting the morning air cool down their heated skin before it gets so warm outside that even the open windows won't be much relief. Their clothes still smell of fire from the bones they salted and burned a couple of hours earlier.

Dean feels tired; the endless stretch of road ahead of them and Sam's silence filling the car are making his head spin. 

"It wasn't fair to me," he says suddenly and he's not sure why he's bringing it up now, why he can't just drive and keep his mouth shut.

"What?" Sam's head turns around, startled. 

Dean presses his lips together, then shrugs. "You have it all worked out in your head, you know. The kiss. And how it fucked everything up that I _didn't_ punch you. And maybe you're right, maybe it would have been so much easier if I'd done that. Easier for you," he concedes. "You could have gone on with your life and gotten over it and written it off as some stupid mistake and blamed it on our fucked up lives."

"Dean."

"But have you ever stopped to consider what it did to me? That it was fucking unfair of you to kiss me, Sam, and then just leave the next day?" 

_Me_ , Dean wants to say. _You left me._

Sam slumps down in the passenger seat, head down. "No, I didn't, not until it was too late," he admits.

Dean wants to push the issue, push Sam, but he suddenly feels drained of all fight and he doesn't say another word.

"I don't deserve this," Sam says that night, sitting on his bed in his boxers and t-shirt, ready for bed.

Dean turns around in his own bed to face Sam, eyes snapping back open. "What?" he asks.

"I loved Jess, but I never cared about her the way I cared about you. I wanted it to work with her, and I think it could have. I really think I could have made a life with her."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because despite all of that, I always loved you more. And if I had married Jess, I still would have had feelings for you. I was being unfair to Jess, Dean. Right from the beginning I was unfair to her because I let the relationship happen even when I knew I'd never love her the way she deserved to be loved. Because I loved you that way," Sam says. "And I'm the reason she died."

"Sam."

"No, don't say I'm not. She wouldn't have died if she'd never met me," Sam argues, fingers twisting in the sheets. "And now you're offering me all of this. And I don't deserve that. I don't deserve you after what happened with Jess."

Dean sighs and sits up in his bed, sheets pooling around his hips. "Christ, Sammy, you didn't kill Jess. You had no control over what happened. If you wanna blame someone, blame the freaking demon who killed her and Mom."

"But I never should have gone out with her."

"So that's it?" Dean asks. "You think you don't deserve this--this thing between us, so you're just going to ignore it?"

Sam shrugs. "I should. Yeah."

Dean bites his lower lip, nods, and he's about to turn away again when he changes his mind. One last try, he thinks, and then he's going to give up. Then he's going to give Sam what he wants, like he always does, and he's going to smile through it and fucking bear it. 

"What about me?" he asks and looks down at his lap with a wry laugh. "Do I not deserve this either?"

Sam doesn't answer. Dean lies back down and turns onto his side, his back to Sam. He closes his eyes and knows sleep won't come for a while.

"Dean," Sam says and then Dean hears him move, hears the soft footsteps and feels his bed dip as Sam sits down on it.

"What?" he asks.

"Don't make this so hard for me."

"I'm sorry," Dean huffs, flipping onto his back. "What do you want me to do, Sam? Huh?"

Sam looks down at him, teeth biting onto his lower lip, and a small smile tugs up at the edges of his mouth. The smile looks happy and sad all at once.

"I want you to be selfish," he says. "I want you to tell me that I'm being a stupid idiot and that I need to stop thinking about myself. I want you to not put me first and just take this if that's what you want."

Dean's heart stops. For one moment, Dean swears his heart stops and he's not breathing and then he wants to hit Sam over the head. He grins. 

"You're being a stupid idiot, Sammy," he says. "And you need to stop thinking about yourself."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, asshole," Dean mutters and slides his hand behind Sam's neck, tugging him down. Sam goes with him. It's dry and soft at first, just the press of lips on lips, and then Dean pushes up a little, angles his head, and Sam makes a soft noise, parting his lips. He coaxes his tongue into Dean's mouth, kissing him sure and hard, lets soft fingers trail down Dean's chest to rest on his hips.

It's like their first kiss, only so much better. So much more.

A loud crash has Dean awake and upright and this is getting too damn familiar. He feels Sam right there next to him, and Dean can't remember them falling asleep in his bed, but they must have. Sam's breath is ragged, too close to Dean's ear, and his hand is clammy as it wraps around Dean's wrist, keeping Dean from going for his gun.

"'s okay," Sam says, voice scratchy. "Just me."

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean groans, falling back into the bed and blinking his eyes until he adjusts to the darkness. The light from the parking lot outside is enough that when Dean cranes his head to the side, he can make out the shadows in the room, the outline of whatever piece of furniture Sam's mind has pushed against the door.

Sam settles back down next to him, shifts around until he can press his face into the crook of Dean's neck, hot and sweaty.

"You okay?" Dean asks and lifts his hand up, tangles his fingers in the damp curls at the back of Sam's neck.

He feels more than hears Sam exhale, his breath on Dean's skin seeping through the neck of his t-shirt.

"Sam?"

"Dream," Sam mumbles, then turns his face, cheek resting on Dean's shoulder.

"Bad?" Dean asks in a low voice. He lets his free hand slide up Sam's arm, inching it under the sleeve of Sam's t-shirt. Sam's skin feels too hot under his palm.

"Yeah."

"You, uh, wanna talk about it?" Dean asks. He rolls onto his side, Sam moving with him, shifts until they're face to face and he can brush their lips together.

"Not really," Sam mumbles, pressing closer. 

"Sammy," Dean murmurs. He cups Sam's face, thumb on Sam's cheekbone, and tries to meet Sam's gaze in the darkness, tries to make out the expression on Sam's face.

"It was just a dream," Sam assures him. "Promise. Just a bad dream."

"That made your powers act out?"

"Yeah," Sam says, pushing forward until their lips can touch again. "It was about you. Getting hurt."

Oh, Dean thinks, and lets Sam distract him with his lips, with soft kisses and hands slowly inching under Dean's shirt.

He rolls Sam onto his back, trails kisses and nips down Sam's jaw. "'m here. I'm okay," he says into Sam's skin.

"Yeah," Sam whispers. He moans raggedly, arching up when Dean covers Sam's body with his. Sam's hands fall onto Dean's shoulders, tugging him back up into a kiss, and Dean gets lost in the feeling of Sam's lips, of tongues sliding together sloppily, as he grinds down against Sam.

He can feel the hardness of Sam through the thin layers of their boxer-shorts, the damp spot forming in his own, and he pushes down harder, wanting more friction, wanting to feel every inch of Sam against him. Sam spreads his legs, lets Dean fall between them and fuck, Dean feels like he's spinning out of control, everything fogged by a haze of lust.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam grunts, arching up against him helplessly. His head falls back onto the pillow, neck exposed, and Dean holds himself up on his arms and looks down at him.

"What do you want, Sammy?" he asks, voice breathless. He leans down, nuzzles Sam's neck, presses his lips to Sam's pulse point. 

"Want you to fuck me," Sam says. There's no hesitation, no trace of uncertainty, and Dean groans, lets his teeth scrape over the skin of Sam's neck before nipping at it, rolling flesh between his teeth and biting down hard enough to sting.

Sam moans, fingers sliding into Dean's hair and holding on. Dean sucks on the skin, imagines the pulse beating just under his tongue, the blood he's sucking to the surface. Imagines the mark he's going to leave. When he pulls away, pressing soft kisses to the hickey, he imagines the way it looks, the bruise on Sam's skin, and he regrets that it's too dark to actually make anything out.

Sam pulls him back into a kiss, hands holding Dean's face in place as he slides his tongue past Dean's lips, kissing him deep and dirty and eliciting soft moans from Dean.

"Gotta get the lube," Dean says when they break apart and Sam lets go of him long enough for Dean to untangle himself from Sam and the sheets.

He stubs his toe against the bed, cursing under his breath, and Sam chuckles and switches on the bedside lamp as Dean hobbles to his duffel bag. The lube is at the bottom of it, buried under clothes, and Dean just pulls them out carelessly until his fingers find the tube and the packet of condoms in the dim light.

Sam is kicking off his boxers when Dean makes it back to the bed, t-shirt already gone and sheets pushed aside into a crumbled heap. He can't hold back the soft moan as his eyes take in the sight, Sam's tan skin looking paler than it is in the crappy light, body stretched out and going on forever.

"Fuck, Sammy," he groans, dropping the lube and condoms onto the mattress before shucking off his own t-shirt.

"Hands and knees," he says, quickly pulling off his boxers, eyes on Sam as Sam rolls around, pushes himself up. Dean kneels down behind him, feels the bed dip. He lets his hands rest of Sam's on ankles, slides them up his calves, his thighs.

Sam's breath hitches softly, and Dean can feel the soft pressure of him leaning into the touch. He moves down, presses a kiss to the base of Sam's spine, then trails his tongue lower.

"Dean," Sam breathes, pushing back.

Dean palms Sam's ass, feels the smooth skin under his hands, and spreads Sam's cheeks before letting his tongue slide lower. Sam moans brokenly, body tensing, and Dean repeats the action. He lets his tongue circle around Sam's hole, feels the muscle contracting, but doesn't push in. 

He lifts his head, chin brushing against Sam's crack. "Anyone ever done this before, Sam?" he asks. "Any of the guys in college?"

"No," Sam replies, voice breaking, then says, "One."

"One did?"

"No. No, there was just one. Just one guy in college that I ever did anything with," Sam clarifies. "And it wasn't serious."

Dean hums, feels satisfaction settle low in his stomach, and he bends his head back down. This time, he adds more pressure, tongue pressing at Sam's entrance and sliding inside. He makes small, shallow stabs that have Sam crying out and rocking back. He feels the muscle relax under his tongue, slick with spit, letting him in deeper, and he licks Sam open slowly, listening to the moans and whimpers he draws from Sam with each slide of his tongue. His own cock is hard and heavy, and he can't wait to push into Sam, to feel that tight heat around his dick.

He trails one finger between Sam's cheeks, feels the wetness of his own spit on Sam's entrance, loose and wet. He presses one finger in alongside his tongue, up to the first knuckle, waiting for Sam's reaction, then deeper when Sam just groans, Dean's name falling from his lips. He keeps working Sam open with his tongue as he fucks his finger in and out slowly, adding a second after a while. 

Sam's whole body shudders when Dean's fingers find his prostate and Dean pulls his face back, kissing Sam's ass cheek.

"You feel so damn good, Sam," he says. "Can't wait to be inside you."

"Fuck. Please," Sam groans, rocking back on his fingers. "Please, Dean."

Dean sits back on his haunches, pulls his fingers out of Sam and grabs the lube. He slicks up three fingers, bringing them back between Sam's cheeks and rubbing them against his entrance, spreading lube there before pushing back into Sam. Sam tenses for a moment, then slowly relaxes, letting Dean in deeper.

"Good?" Dean asks, palming Sam's ass with his free hand, spreading his cheeks a little to watch his fingers disappear into Sam's body, Sam's hole stretched around them and Jesus fucking Christ, Dean is about to burst. He could come just from this, he thinks, from watching his fingers opening Sam up, thrusting in and out, of the feeling of Sam around him.

"'m fine," Sam mumbles, then chuckles breathlessly. "More than fine. 'm ready, Dean"

"Okay. Yeah," Dean says, heart thudding loudly in his chest. 

He pulls out, wiping his hand on the bedspread before grabbing the box of condoms. His fingers are too slippery and he rips one of the foil wrappers open with his teeth impatiently. Sam is looking back over his shoulder, and heat curls tightly in Dean's stomach. He rolls the condom down his dick, slicks himself up with more lube than probably necessary.

"Ready?" he asks one more time, just to be sure.

Sam laughs. 

"What does it look like to you?" he asks, voice turning into a hiss as Dean positions himself, pressing the tip of his cock inside. Sam is tight, hot, and Dean bites down on his lower lip hard enough to break skin to keep himself from just pushing in completely. He goes slow instead, inch by inch, feeling the stretch of Sam around him, letting Sam adjust to the feeling until he's buried inside to the hilt and Sam starts rocking back impatiently, tiny moans slipping from him as Dean draws out and pushes in with slow rocks of his hips.

"Come on, Dean. Come on," Sam breathes out. "Fuck me. Please. Just fuck me."

Dean groans and does as he's told. He thrusts back into Sam harder, his hands grabbing Sam's hips. He fucks Sam deep, hard, feels sweat trickle down his temple, the muscles of his thighs shaking. Nothing's ever felt this good. Sam is impossibly tight, clenching around Dean's dick, and Dean feels like he can't breathe, gasping out Sam's name as he thrusts inside Sam again and again.

He'd imagined this countless times, guilt making his stomach churn as he lay in bed and thought of Sam like this, but nothing ever came close to the reality, to the pleasure he's feeling. Sam is loud and pushy, moaning and gasping and edging Dean on, meeting Dean's thrusts, filth dripping from his mouth each time Dean pushes back in.

"More," and, "please," and "so good, Dean, so fucking good, your cock inside me."

When Dean feels his orgasm approaching, he reaches around Sam and wraps one hand around his cock, jerking him off fast, rhythm as unsteady as that of his hips.

He feels Sam shudder, feels the muscles tighten around his cock and hot come splatters onto Dean's hand, Sam crying out his name. He fucks Sam through it, holding him up with a strong grip as he pushes inside the tight heat until he reaches his own release, hot and sudden.

They collapse onto the bed together, Sam twisting underneath him until Dean lifts up enough for Sam to turn around, to press their bodies together, legs tangled. The night air cools the sweat on Dean's skin down, making his skin pebble, but he feels too fucked out to move and retrieve the blankets. 

He twists his fingers in Sam's hair, listens to Sam's ragged breath as he waits for his heartbeat to slow down.

Sam winds his arms around Dean, presses a sloppy kiss to Dean's collarbone, his hand moving over the skin of Dean's back.

Dean knows they'll have to move eventually. Sam's body is too hot to sleep tangled together, the bed too small for both of them, and his skin is starting to itch with drying sweat and Sam's spunk smeared between their stomachs. They'll get a king-sized bed at the next motel, he thinks drowsily, one they can sleep in together without waking up cramped and uncomfortable. He sighs, breath ruffling the hair at Sam's temple, tickling against Dean's nose. One more minute, he thinks, one more minute like this, with Sam, and they'll move, clean up, get some sleep.

His eyes slide shut as Sam sleepily drawings meaningless designs onto his back.

Dean wakes up later than usual, the bed next to him empty but still warm. The room stinks of stale sex and his skin feels tight, Sam's come crusty on his stomach. He groans, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillows. He stays like that until the bathroom door creaks open, Sam's footsteps soft as he pads through the room.

Dean is not sure what to expect, not sure where they stand after the night before, and he startles when Sam slaps his thigh through the sheets.

"Dean, we're gonna miss checkout," Sam says. He sounds normal, no trace of guilt or panic or 'how the hell do I tell Dean that last night was a one-time thing'.

Dean cranes his head back, blinking at the brightness of the room, and groans.

Sam is looking down at him with a smile, hair curling damply around his face. He looks rested, happy, and Dean is going to deny that he actually feels his stomach flutter till the day he dies.

"I'll see if I can find us coffee and food," Sam says, dimples carved deep into his cheeks, nose wrinkling a little. Dean is fucking screwed. "You go take a shower."

Dean doesn't manage more than a grunt and then Sam leans down, pressing their lips together. He tastes of toothpaste, smells of cheap soap, and Dean pushes up into it, wanting more, chasing Sam's lips when Sam breaks the kiss.

"Shower," Sam reminds him.

Dean grumbles under his breath but sits up, running a hand over his face and patting down his hair.

"There was a diner a few blocks down the street," he says, voice gruff with sleep. "Take the car."

Sam's smile widens and he nods, stepping out of Dean's reach when Dean gets up, as if he fears Dean will grab him and drag him into the shower with him. Dean wouldn't have. At all. Because the image of Sam all wet and soapy isn't making heat pool in his stomach and his dick harden.

"I'll be back in a few," Sam calls over his shoulder and Dean trudges into the bathroom. 

He turns the water on to almost too hot, letting it rain down on him, loosening the muscles of his back as he lets his hand wander down his stomach. He jerks off slowly, dragging his hand up and down his cock lazily, and thinks of Sam.

Five weeks later, in Great Falls, Montana, Dean finds himself on the ground, the cold, unforgiving fingers of a ghost wrapped around his throat. He can hear the shuffle of Sam fighting a few feet away. He fucking hates it when there is more than one angry spirit, especially when they only knew about one, and most of all he hates it when it's the two spirits of two fucking psychotic sisters who are determined to kill them.

He cranes his head, stretches his arm as far as he can, but his sawed-off is just out of reach, a mere few inches away.

"Dean," he hears Sam call, and the edges of his vision starting to get blurry. And then his sawed-off _moves_ and his fingers grasp the solid, wooden stock.

The shot echoes through the room, the grip on his throat vanishing instantly, and Dean sucks in a breath, spluttering before rolling onto his side, heaving his beaten body up to go help Sam.

"You fucking saved my life," Dean says, fingers trailing over the dark bruises on his neck, and he meets Sam's eyes in the mirror.

"Far from the first time."

"With your telekinesis," Dean adds.

Sam's lips twitch into a smile. "Not the first time either."

"No," Dean concedes, turning around, sink digging into his ass as he leans back. Sam steps between his legs, body radiating heat, and Dean feels himself relax. He reaches up, touching his fingers gently to the edge of the band-aid on Sam's temple. There's still a smudge of dried blood sticking to Sam's skin and Dean tries to wipe it away.

"You moved my sawed-off deliberately," he says. It's not a question.

Sam shrugs. "I can't really control it yet, but it's getting better," he admits. "I just--I couldn't get to you and that bitch was choking you. So I tried."

Sam doesn't look at him, brows creased, unhappy.

"Sammy," Dean says, voice low. "Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't."

"Yeah," Sam replies with a shrug. "I still don't like it. That I had to do that. You don't like it either."

"No," Dean admits. "But it beats the alternative. Gotta be alive to keep you safe, right?" 

Sam huffs out a laugh, lets Dean tug him down into a kiss easily.

Later, lying side by side on top of the sheets, naked bodies cooling off, Sam tangles their fingers together and brings their hands to his lips, kissing Dean's knuckles.

"I wish I didn't use them at all," he admits. "I--It scares me. I don't know. Who knows what it does to me, right? If I just don't use them, maybe..."

He trails off, voice thoughtful.

Dean exhales and lets his head loll to the side, eyes meeting Sam's. "I know. But sometimes you can't stop it, Sam. It's gonna happen."

"Yeah," Sam says, resigned.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay," Dean says. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"You don't know that," Sam says with a sad smile.

Dean rolls onto his side. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he repeats. "Screw the demon and screw dad. I know you, Sam, and I know you're not going to suddenly go dark-side, okay? That's not you. And I'm going to be here and make sure that it's gonna stay that way."

"Promise," Sam says, lips inches away from Dean's.

Dean smiles and kisses Sam. 

Unlike the promise in he made in Cornwall all those weeks ago, this one is easy to make.


End file.
